


Soul Marked

by Bearslayer



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mentions of self-harm, Soulmate AU, mentions of child abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-23
Updated: 2018-01-23
Packaged: 2019-03-08 10:37:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13456479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bearslayer/pseuds/Bearslayer
Summary: A soulmate AU stretching over the lives of Oswald and Edward.





	Soul Marked

Oswald was seven years old when the first mark appeared. It was a circle of red on his forearm that appeared when he was in the bath that appeared feeling like an insect's sting. It didn't hurt after the initial pin-prick, even when he pushed in on it. It was like a scar that he never remembered being there. He didn't think too hard about it, and eventually it faded into a freckle-like dot that he barely noticed. A few little marks appeared here and there, but little Oswald thought nothing of them.

When he was eight, terror struck while he was getting changed for bedtime. Angry marks appeared before his eyes as he glanced into the mirror, slashing viciously across his back, marring his pale skin with deep red. They left tiny trails of fiery pain in center of their wake. They stung longer than the mark from before, lingered, made him let out a cry that brought his mother to his bedroom door. He ran into her arms when she arrived, weeping.

“Mama, my back!” He cried.

“Oswald, what happened? Did you fall?” She pulled him away to examine the marks, running her fingertips over them. The pain lingered inside him though her touch was soothing.

“No, I was just putting on my pajamas! Mama, it hurts, I don't know what happened!” He whimpered, looking over his shoulder at her.

“Oh, my poor baby... Do they hurt when I touch them?” She frowned softly as she examined the marks.

“N-no... It feels better when you do. What is it, why did it happen?” He mumbled as she pulled him back into her arms. He gave a whimper as another slashed his lower back.

“I'm so sorry, my sweet boy. You don't deserve such pain, but I can't help you, only hold you until it passes.” Gertrud said. Oswald felt teardrops land heavy on his bare skin as she cried for him.

“Why mama? Why can't you help?” Oswald asked. Her tears hurt more than the marks ever could.

“Because they will happen whenever your true love is hurt. This does not happen with many people, but in our family it always has. I knew that your father was my one and only when I saw that we shared all the same scars. He could tell me all the times I had ever broken skin; he knew when I cut my leg on a fence when I was nine, and that I had broken my arm when I was thirteen. I knew that he had broken his collarbone when he was twelve, and that he had split his lip in a fight when he was fourteen.” She told the boy as she rocked him. The gravity of the implication was not lost on young Oswald.

“He can't hurt his own back though... Someone is hurting my true love?” He mumbled to her as his tears gained new reason.

“I...” His mother trailed off, stroking his back tenderly, “I hope, for your sake, that that isn't the case, my love.”

“Can I find him?” Oswald pulled away from her, looking at his mother's face, blotchy and pink with her tears. She had realized the same thing that he had upon seeing the ghost-wounds. Someone had been abusing Oswald's soulmate, and he was powerless to help.

“I-if you are very lucky. I hope that you find them, whoever they are. But they could be anywhere.” She said.

“I'll find him and protect him.” Oswald leaned back against her, resolving to himself that nothing was more important to him. He would grow up to be strong and powerful, to protect his soulmate no matter what.

“My brave boy.” Gertrud whispered as she held her son.

That night, Oswald would barely sleep, too hung up on thoughts of his future love. What would he be like? Would he be funny and smart? Would he be nervous or brave? Would he be strong, the way Oswald wanted to be, or weak like he actually was? And most importantly; would he survive until Oswald could find him?

∞

The first phantom-marks appeared on ten year old Edward's knees and palms. It was as if he had been shoved to the ground, but all he felt was a little pressure and the vaguest of aches. He studied the marks, confused by them. They were a mystery that he couldn't crack, but his interest in them faded when he could come up with no reasonable answer aside from maybe some sort of rash. The marks themselves left his body soon.

But the mystery wounds would soon make another appearance. A little slash mark across his cheek. A thin red line dead-center in his lower lip. One day he watched in abject horror and fascination as a hundred little lines marred his knuckles, as if he had been fistfighting with a person made entirely of red felt tips. The thought made him giggle a bit, though there was an ache in his hands as more marks appeared.

Edward took to the library that day. It was his refuge; there, he could be away from the cruelty of his classmates. He was free of his parents, who abhorred him. He was surrounded by books, by knowledge, by unfeeling facts that wavered for no person. There was a strength in intellect that he had come to appreciate. He held it deep in his heart, armored himself in it, a shield against those who would never understand or accept him.

In the library, Edward, then 13, poured his fragile heart into research. The librarian, Ms. Flynn, assisted him; he had known her for years and she had always shown appreciation for him. Edward adored her. He wished that she was his mother, somewhere in the part of his mind that could not escape the rigors of abuse thrown at him by those who raised him. The part of his mind where he was still tiny and easily broken.

Ms. Flynn, who smelled of lilac and clean linen, came to him while he was in the stacks for the fifth day in a row. He was the very picture of studious youth, two stacks of books on either side of him, legs folded to make a better surface in which the book he was currently reading could rest. He didn't even notice her standing over him, engrossed in the text.

“Edward. Is everything alright?” She said softly, wisps of ginger hair peppered with gray drifting into her line of sight as she looked down at him.

“Oh! Ms. Flynn! Yes, everything is fine. I'm just doing some personal research and some of the things I've come across are fascinating.” Ed said. Carefully, the older woman knelt down, eye level with him. Her eyes were a remarkable green that he didn't have the words to describe.

“I was wondering what had you coming here every day. What sort of research are you doing? Can I help?” She smiled. She was always so kind about his studies, showed such genuine interest.

“I was researching something strange that happens to me every now and then... Sometimes my body will be marked up when I haven't even been hurt in any way. That is to say – marks pop up on me sometimes and I have no explanation for them. I've ruled out any sort of rash. Fungal, bacterial, parasitical, viral. My hygiene habits are excellent, I'm not ill, any sort of mite would leave more distinct markings in the case of things like ringworm and scabies, so those are out. The marks never hurt for more than a moment, when I first get them, but it goes away quickly, even when the marks stay. It could be some sort of capillary dilation, but the patterns wouldn't be so distinct and they would be hot to the touch, which they never are.” Edward knew he was prattling on; if it were anyone but Ms. Flynn, he would expect to be chided or told to shut up. She simply listened until he paused.

“Marks that don't hurt, aren't a rash, that you didn't inflict on yourself or have inflicted on you... That's very curious, but something does come to mind...” Ms. Flynn said as she rose to her feet.

Charmed by her immediate interest in his query, Edward stood with her. She walked away, not bothering to see if he was following. She knew he was. He was electrified by the possibilities, nervousness and excitement bolting through his body in perfect harmony. Would it be something horrific or something wonderful? Did he have some rare disorder? Maybe this would reveal other things about him that defied explanation. Maybe he would learn things about himself that he never knew.

“Bear with me, Edward, I just have to find the book in the catalog...” Ms. Flynn mumbled as she opened the cabinet that held record of each book there. Within a moment she pulled out an index card, and was off like a flash of lightning towards a bookshelf in the back corner of the library.

The book she pulled out was leather-bound and old, and in gold leaf on the binding the words “Physical Anomalies”. The authors name was long and Edward guessed Indian in origin, though he was too transfixed with the title to give it much thought. He waited, anxiety thrumming through his legs and arms like the touch of cold on a winter's day. Silently he waited as Ms. Flynn thumbed through the pages. He wondered if she had read every book in the library, or if she had wanted the answer to this question herself at some point.

“... 'The sensation of these 'phantom wounds' carry a strange connotation. Patients who report experiencing the wounds mention a characteristic burn at their formation, followed by a distinct lack of any further pain. Of the patients reporting the sensation, there was no clear demographic line, with wounds appearing in as many men as women, and in a range of different cultures.'” Ms. Flynn read, skimming over some demographic things she knew would hold no interest to Ed.

“Genetic testing discovered no clear link in common that would explain the markings that would sometimes seem to appear spontaneously, but further research into the topic brought about a number of second-hand accounts. Sometimes called 'soul marks' or 'marriage wounds', this anomaly is mentioned in not only the mythos of at least ten different cultures, but in written records throughout history.” She continued. Edward wrung his hands together, fidgeting in his spot.

“There is a common theme throughout the writings. It is believed that these marks form a connection between two people. When the skin is broken on one recipient, the other is marked as well. This strange symbiotic wounding has lead some to believe that this is an indicator that the two whose markings coincide with the others scars are 'soulmates'. The concept of a soulmate is the idea that two people are meant to be together, two halves of a whole. This itself seems like nothing but romantic conjecture, especially considering the rarity of the phantom wounds, but there is not enough research in the topic to form any real conclusions.” She read, stopping at the end.

“A soulmate?” Edward whispered. “So the marks I get could mean that I... have a soulmate?”

“There are some other books this references, I could try to find them for you. If anything, I can request them from the Metropolis archive!” She seemed excited for him, holding the book in her arms close to her chest. Edward looked at her hands. Unlike his, they were unmarred, no fresh cuts sprinkling over her knuckles. The vaguest bit of disappointment crossed his mind, but was soon crushed under the weight of renewed enthusiasm.

Edward would remain in the library until it closed, seeking out any hints he could about the strange and wonderful phenomenon he had been struck by. All the while he was enticed by thoughts of his potential soulmate. Would they really like him? Would they actually _love_ him? Would they be beautiful and kind? Would they think he was funny and appreciate his intellect? All Edward knew was that if the bizarre condition he had been afflicted with meant that somewhere there was a lover out there for him, he would do everything he could to be what they needed.

∞

In the years that passed, Oswald did everything he could within his abilities to become strong for his soulmate. He was too sickly to train his body, so instead he trained his mind. He honed the skills he had a natural ability for rather than fixating on ones he could never refine.

He sharpened his tongue, learning to be quick of wit and refined in language. A man who knew how to speak properly could rule the world.

He honed his ears, learning to pick up on seemingly minute details. A man who knew the secrets and intentions of others could use those things as a shield.

He fine-tuned his sight, learning the subtleties of human emotion as told through the muscles. A man who could tell a liar through the twitch of their lip was a man who could manipulate the finer details.

He strengthened his inner resolve, built up his confidence. A man who never wavered from the belief that he deserved more was man who would never break.

Though physically Oswald was unimposing and somewhat weak, he learned over time that he could use that to his advantage. He embraced the perception that he was cowardly, a weasel, a weakling. He made himself subservient, bent to the will of others in order to learn from them. He taught himself how to weather a beating, how to relax the muscles so that injury was less severe. He studied the bodies of the men and women who were abusers, henchmen, goons, learning how to perceive where their strikes could go based on the shifting of their muscles. Everything he learned would come in handy when he put himself into a position of power.

Oswald accepted that to be taken seriously in the years to come that he would have to be brutal and manipulative. And though at times he would become disheartened, the gentle pink marks that crisscrossed his back served to steel his resolve. It was a macabre reminder of the person he fought for, the one he needed to protect. Throughout the years his soulmate marks told a sad story, one that made him ache to find him quicker.

Whoever he was, he wasn't a fighter. Defensive wounds appeared on his arms all throughout his teenage years. When they stopped for a long while Oswald feared the worst, only finding comfort in the knowledge that if he had been killed by some brute that more marks would have appeared. If he had been killed, murdered, Oswald would have received a phantom wound like no other; the Y-shaped incision of an autopsy. He took morbid comfort in the idea.

He wondered if his destined lover had become better at defending himself. The idea of it made him a little sad; he had spent so long building himself up to protect him. But his pride outweighed that selfish leaning. Perhaps his soulmate had grown strong over the years; perhaps his strength of body was now something not to be trifled with, and the two of them could rule Gotham together. Oswald would gladly plan and plot if his other was able to carry out his schemes with muscle. Having a strong, muscular husband was certainly appealing, but even if it weren't the case, Oswald wouldn't care.

Did his other share his scars? He was almost scared to find out. Being as prone to injury and beatings as Oswald was, he worried that he might turn his future partner into a nervous wreck... if he was aware that they were what they were. According to his mother, soul markings were a rare thing. She didn't know if one's soulmate always bore the trait, and there was little research on the matter. What was written in the books Oswald could find ended up being mostly conjecture, though the myths he had found were lovely and idealistic enough to keep him romanticizing the notion.

Oswald watched everyone he came across, seeking out scars and marks. Because he didn't know if his soulmate would have the same trait as him, he looked mostly for their scars. One in particular that hadn't faded as much and was more obvious than the ones on his back was one that wrapped around the right palm. It was as if his other had caught a whip that had lashed the skin from inside his hand and wrapped a little around the back. It was distinct enough that Oswald looked for it everywhere, on everyone he met.

He held out hope that somehow his mate would be in Gotham, but as he grew older, never bothering to even try dating, Oswald toyed with the idea of traveling. He had built himself up in Gotham. He had grown up there, his mother was there, his **life** was there, but his youth was rapidly drifting away as he climbed the ranks of Gotham's underworld. Yet he couldn't bring himself to leave to carry out his search.

His soulmate was in his skin and in his blood, but Gotham was his heart, keeping him alive.

Oswald didn't didn't believe in magic, but he certainly believed in fate.

As long as he kept believing, he knew he would find the man who would complete him.

∞

Once Edward finished schooling, he lobbied himself into a position in the GCPD as their forensic scientist. He became obsessed with his work because it put him into contact with so many different people. Every crime he saw filled him with elation and relief because not a single victim yet bore the many markings that dotted and crossed his own skin. It was a macabre thing to find peace in, but Edward had never been like other people.

Every day he searched for his soulmate, theorizing what they may be like. Whoever they were, Edward knew they were either rough around the edges or prone to being abused with how many injuries they received. He worried for their health almost constantly; little pink marks scattered across Edward's body, telltale signs that the one he loved could surely use tender care. He often found his lip darker in places from where his mate had received a blow that split it. His knuckles were constantly changing color, an ever-shifting gradient of red to white. Maybe his lover was a cage fighter or something equally dangerous?

The thought was exhilarating. He would prefer to be with someone intelligent, but he wouldn't mind being with a complete brute either, just so long as they were _his_ brute and their anger wasn't focused on him. This mystery person had become his life's greatest mystery, a riddle with no clear answer. He had mused on the format of such a riddle, but even that evaded him. For someone as particular as Edward, it proved to be both frustrating and wonderful.

He had traveled some during his schooling, but could never bring himself to stay away from Gotham for long. Logically, he knew the chances of finding his other in Gotham were slim, but despite life's many failings, he trusted it to lead him to them. He had wondered over how he might help it along. The only way he could think to make it clear to the other piece of his soul that he was there was to give them some physical sign. He could use his flesh to send a message that only they could receive.

Often times he had brought a blade to his arm, though, only to panic and throw it down. It made his head swim, past traumas boiling to the surface the moment he felt hard steel against his flesh. He had tried other methods of breaking the skin, but always found himself in a spiral the moment he tried. It was hard enough to rein in his fractured psyche without self-injury adding to his problems. Other methods hadn't worked either.

He did end up marking himself in a distinctive way, however, entirely on accident. One night while cooking himself a modest dinner, he had knocked the pan he was using off the stove with his hip. His mind had gone on autopilot, instinct causing him to grab for the pan. He had caught it, to his horror, around the rim, searing a line into his palm that wrapped a little around the back. The pain was horrific, but he instantly saw it as an opportunity. He barely bothered to treat the injury, only wrapping it and avoiding infection. The scar was deep and distinctive, and he knew if he saw it on someone else that he would recognize it instantly.

Edward was filled with worries despite his excitement at the thought of having a destined significant other. He knew that he was an odd man, and that though he tried hard to present himself as normally as he could, people were repelled by him. His enthusiasm for his job seemed to put people off, as well as his mannerisms. He knew the officers spoke ill of him, called him names when they thought he couldn't hear. The anger that welled up in him each time was pushed down as deep as he could manage it... but he knew that wasn't healthy.

The growing problem of conflicting emotions and intrusive thoughts had begun to wear on Edward, who had always just wanted to be accepted and acknowledged. He had read enough psychology books to know that repression of one's emotions made the mind a breeding ground for disorder, but it was a habit so heavily seated in him that he did it without thinking. His dreams had become violent, and he found himself romanticizing the criminals of the city. They were so _free_ , so full of unrestrained emotion. He envied that freedom, studied it the way he studied everything.

Would his mate hate him the way others seemed to?

Would they be repelled by his mannerisms?

Would they spurn his affections because he wasn't stable?

The thoughts kept him awake at night, when his loneliness was at its most palpable. He felt it when he laid in bed, arms wrapped tight around a pillow, eyed fixed on the ceiling. Quiet but mind racing in a way he couldn't shake, couldn't cope with. He could almost see his soulmate in his mind's eye, a hazy silhouette that stayed just out of reach. Imagined scenarios played through his consciousness, all negative, all soul-crushing.

He imagined them seeing his darkness and leaving.

He imagined them beating him, and believing that he deserved it.

He imagined them mocking him, shunning him, doing anything they could do distance themself from him.

He imagined them hating the idea of being with him so much that they hurt themself to get away.

There were times he thought of giving up his quest to find them in order to spare them both the pain. But the older he got, the deeper his desire to find them grew. He only hoped that his fears were unfounded, the product of a troubled mind in a man who had grown up hurt. He hoped that his other half would accept him, help him heal. Maybe they would even be the sort of partner in life that would help him embrace the parts of himself that he hated and feared.

Regardless of his worries, Edward knew he had to find them.

∞

Oswald's quest for strength and power was one riddled with pain. He did horrific things, things that would make his mother cry if she knew of them. He desensitized himself to murder. He associated with depraved monsters. He carefully manipulated everyone around him, knowing that the only way he would get where he needed to be was to prey on their weaknesses and turn them into his own strengths.

He used Fish Mooney's knowledge and contacts to collect information.

He used Jim Gordon's goodness to fly under the radar as an assumed dead man.

He used Carmine Falcone's eye for potential to set traps.

He used Salvatore Maroni's cockiness and thirst for power to act as the bomb that would destroy Gotham's underworld so that he could step in as its leader.

There were times he wondered if he had taken it too far. If he met his soulmate that day, what would he think of him? Would he see Oswald as a monster and shun him? Would he stare into Oswald's darkness and leave? The thoughts drove him to the bottle, taking comfort in an inability to process such worries. His nights were anything but restful, his often drunken sleep restless and plagued by bizarre dreams.

He had woven such an intricate web of lies and deceit that he worried he would do the same to his destined lover. That, in order to impress him, to keep him close, he would lie, the way he always did. He had become such a skilled liar that he often found himself believing his own words when he would spout off half-truths and tall tales. It was artistry of a malicious sort, and it terrified the part of him that still held some hope that he could be good.

But Oswald had seen and done too much evil to believe that redemption could be grasped.

He had seen into the true nature of man over the years, and he knew that most only buried their darkness in a shroud of artificial light.

At least Oswald was honest in that respect. He knew he was despicable.

But maybe his soulmate would see him in a different way.

Maybe he would be able to see something worth redeeming in Oswald.

∞

The day they met, neither were prepared.

The influx of emotion swirling inside both was a storm they had not known was coming. They both assumed their meeting would be less explosive, inside; that it would feel like coming home after a long day. Instead, it was so intense that both felt repelled, shaken to the core. They had seen one anothers hands at the same time; Oswald saw his burned palm, Edward saw the bruised and battered knuckles. Edward grabbed Oswald's hand, and it almost burned, so sharp that Oswald snatched his hand away and stared at him.

“Don't touch me.” Oswald whispered, his words a defense mechanism for the many years he had been hurt at the hands of strangers.

“I- I'm sorry.” Edward said in return, eyes darting back and forth between his hand and his face, his words nearly choking in his throat.

“No, I...” Oswald rasped.

It was as if the air had lost all moisture, both unable to gather the necessary means to complete a sentence. A lifetime of searching had robbed them of the means to properly articulate what was happening inside them both. Their hands tingled in unison, and it terrified them both. Neither had known much in the way of affection, scorned for their differences, and at that moment, peace and terror in sync filled both heart to the point of bursting.

“T-take a break and walk with me?” Oswald said, voice small and disarmed by the appearance of the one he had sought out his entire life. He had come to the GCPD with some task, something that suddenly seemed inconsequential. Edward had known who he was before he even came, but had no way of knowing he would be someone so important to him.

Without another word, Edward nodded, leading him out of the precinct.

For twenty minutes they walked in silence, minds a miasma of questions and roiling emotion.

Oswald took Edward's hand, then, pulling him into an alley, staring up at the man without breaking contact. They took in the sight of one another, weighing it against their previous musings. Oswald was shorter than Edward expected. Edward was thinner than Oswald expected. The sharpness of Edward's cheekbones took Oswald's breath away, though, and Edward couldn't look away from those eyes for even a second.

“I've been looking for you my whole life, and now that you're here, I... I don't know what to say. I have so many questions.” Edward said. Oswald hadn't pulled his hand away again, and it emboldened Edward, who took the other one.

“I know – I just... I spent so long thinking about what I would say to you, I just...” Oswald said, once again overcome with emotion. His eyes filled with tears, finding Edward's presence overwhelming. It was as if he had gone through life with a weight on his chest, and now that it had been removed, he worried he would float away.

“I know, me too... We have a lot to talk about,” Edward mumbled, feeling the same. The gangster he had admired so much since he first surfaced stood before him, tears spilling over his cheeks unhindered. Edward frowned, hands moving to his face to brush them away, holding him in his hands. “Please don't cry!”

The touch of his hands felt healing, a soothing balm to mend his worries and fears. Oswald brought his hands up to rest over them, looking up at the other man.

“I'll do everything I can to protect you... I swear I'll never let anyone hurt you again.” Oswald whispered, the promise he had made to the void as a child finally spoken to the one it was meant for.

Heart in his throat, all Edward could do was kiss him.

And when their lips touched, they both felt every mark, every ghost-wound, every reddened patch of skin pulsate with a comforting warmth. Then, and only then, did it feel like they had come home.

 


End file.
